


Fair Exchange

by ratherastory



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 15:29:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5591536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherastory/pseuds/ratherastory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a mission goes wrong, it's up to an injured Clint to save the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fair Exchange

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sian1359](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian1359/gifts).



Clint comes to with a jolt. For a moment he wonders if he’s gone blind, but once he scrubs the congealing blood out of his eyes, they adjust slowly to the low light. He tries to sit up, only to find himself half-buried in rubble. A cloud of dust floats up above him, and the smell of chemicals burns his mouth and nostrils. He groans, coughs, and lets his head drop back onto the ground. Somehow, he’d managed to forget about the explosion, but the warm, sticky sensation of blood trickling from his scalp reminds him of his circumstances in a hurry. He doesn’t think he’s concussed, but that could just be the concussion talking.

 

“Why do these places always have a self-destruct button?” he groans, testing the sound of his own voice. It’s dry and raspy, but definitely there and not just in his head, which means his hearing aids are still functional. “Okay, Barton. You’re not dead. Come on, get up.”

 

The second attempt at sitting up goes better, though brushing aside all the crap that fell on him raises another cloud of dust for him to choke on. There’s a sharp pain in his side, and his right wrist protests when he uses it to push himself upright. He can’t tell if it’s just a bad sprain or a hairline fracture, but it’s not like he can do much about it right now, anyway. His right knee isn’t too happy with him either, but the rest is all bumps and bruises and pulled muscles, for the most part. That means he’s gotten off lightly, under the circumstances.

 

He reaches up to fiddle with his ear bud. “This is Barton. Anyone copy?”

 

There’s no answer, even though he could have sworn he’d heard Phil over the comms, and that was what woke him. He doesn’t hear anything now, though, not even static.

 

“Coulson? Coulson, come in.” There’s no answer, and he feels his heart skip a beat. It doesn’t mean anything, he reassures himself. There’s any number of reasons Phil wouldn’t be able to respond. He tries again. “Coulson? Faraji? Come in! Romanov?”

 

Still nothing. He pushes himself to his feet, wincing as his knee threatens to buckle under him. Okay, the situation looks bad, but it’s probably not as bad as he thinks. The base was already mostly empty when they got in, that much he knows. They’d scoured the place systematically, right until something or someone set off the auto-destruct sequence. All he remembers is the countdown starting, and Phil barking at the team over the comms to abort, to get the hell out of there. Clint had heard Nat acknowledge the order, but Faraji had balked.

 

“I’m almost there, I can make it!”

 

That was when the first explosion hit, rocking the building. He’d heard Phil one last time, saying something about coming in to extract them, and the audio had failed, filling his head with static.

 

“Coulson, no! Phil,” he’d yelled, knowing even then that it was too late. “Stay where you are!”

 

It was a breach of protocol, something Phil pretty much never did, and it wasn’t hard to figure out why. Not that Clint has any delusions about Phil swooping in to try to rescue him out of love, or anything (though it’s a nice thought). Still, Coulson’s record in the field was unblemished: not a single human loss, in all his years of service. He never once left an operative behind, no matter the circumstances. The words “acceptable loss” didn’t exist in his vocabulary. Damn Phil and his ridiculous loyalty to his team.

 

What’s left of the base is a shambles of crumbled walls and twisted rebar. Splintered furniture litters the rooms to either side of the hallway he’s in, and he doesn’t bother checking in them for survivors. Someone knew they were coming, it’s obvious now. The place must have been cleared out long before they got here. All he has to do is find his team and then they can get the hell out.

 

He tries the comms again, and this time is rewarded with a crackle of static. “This is Barton. Does anyone read me? Coulson?”

 

For a split-second he thinks he heard someone say his name, but there’s nothing coming over the comms except static, and he can’t be sure he didn’t just imagine it. It’s wishful thinking, hoping that Phil will be there on the other side of the comms, like a security blanket with a plan and logical orders to follow.

 

The canister they were after was being kept in a safe room in the North quadrant of the building, so it makes sense that he’ll find Faraji there, and maybe Nat, too. His part of the mission had been mostly reconnaissance, to keep an eye out for Hydra reinforcements, just in case. Nat’s the retrieval expert, and Faraji was supposed to be her back-up, until the whole plan had taken a sharp right at Albuquerque.

 

It’s slow going. The series of explosions ripped the massive building apart, leaving behind crumpled walls and collapsed ceilings, massive beams and huge sheets of drywall, as well as dangling electrical wires that spark as he skirts around the rubble. His progress is further impeded by his rapidly swelling knee and the growing sense of paranoia that, just maybe, he isn’t as alone in this place as he thinks he is, though he can’t pinpoint the exact reason for the feeling.

 

There’s no reason to worry, he reassures himself, but that doesn’t keep him from switching off his comms, adjusting the volume on his hearing aids, and from stopping to peer into every room with an open door, as if Hydra agents are going to pop out of there like some sort of boogie man. The fact that he’s apparently hearing phantom voices in his head definitely isn’t helping him feel any safer.

 

Coulson would be giving orders, by now, getting them all sorted out. _Secure yourself first, your immediate surroundings next._ Standard protocol, except there’s no time for that. Clint can’t explain the sudden sense of urgency, but he increases his pace, ignoring the stab of pain in his knee with every step he takes. All he can think of is finding Phil, making sure with his own eyes and hands that he’s safe, that he didn’t get himself killed on what was meant to be an easy in-and-out mission. Clint knows his best bet for that is to get to his team, to Nat and Faraji. Somehow, if they’re all together, he knows they’ll be able to find Phil, get themselves out of this mess.

 

It’s nearly twenty minutes of picking his way through rubble and clambering over debris, detouring around dead ends that weren’t there before. Whole sections of the building are gone, leaving only jagged bits of wall jutting into the blue sky. By the time he gets to the North quadrant of the building he’s dripping with sweat and even dizzier than before. It looks like this area bore the brunt of the self-destruct. The safe room is gone, the walls and ceiling ripped apart, exposing the contents to the world, not that there’s much that hasn’t been incinerated. All that’s left is a high portion of the outside wall, light coming in through the one remaining shattered window, half a story up, and two figures sprawled amidst the rubble.

 

Nat rouses moments after he kneels next to her, eyelashes fluttering attractively. How she manages to look pretty even when her clothes are torn, her hair is matted with blood, and her face bruised and scratched, is entirely beyond him. He suspects that it might be a survival mechanism, and the thought depresses him. Her leg is very obviously broken at the ankle, and he winces in sympathy. The canister they’ve been sent to retrieve is tucked behind her, right up against what’s left of the safe room wall.

 

“You with me?” he makes a peace sign. “How many fingers?”

 

“You look terrible,” she says instead of replying.

 

“Hi, pot. You’re also looking very black today. Any pain in your stomach or back?” he carefully helps her to sit up, propping her up against the wall and palpating her stomach, feeling for any sign of internal bleeding. He doesn’t feel anything, much to his relief.

 

“No. Got lucky, all things considered. You?”

 

“Cracked some ribs, got banged around some. I’ve had worse.”

 

Faraji, though, is in bad shape. He doesn’t so much as stir when Clint tries to rouse him. It looks like a whole section of wall blew up right on top of him, and there’s a wicked-looking length of rebar sticking out of his side, just below his ribcage. Clint reaches out to feel for a pulse, fingers pressed to Faraji’s carotid artery, and is relieved when it throbs weakly in response.

 

“He alive?”

 

“Yeah. I don’t think any vital organs are hit, from the looks of it, but he’s going to die of shock if we don’t get him out. The bleeding isn’t too bad, for now, but we can’t remove that thing from him without killing him. We need to get an extraction team in here. Any word on Coulson before everything blew up?”

 

She shakes her head, and his he swallows the sudden lump in his throat. He hadn’t been expecting much from her, but a part of him had hoped… he doesn’t let himself dwell on it.

 

“I’m sorry, Clint.”

 

The sincerity in her voice makes him want to punch the nearest wall. She’s talking as if Phil’s already dead, and in her mind, maybe he is. Natasha learned a long time ago to cut emotional ties quickly, to spare herself pain. If she thinks of people as already gone… but Clint isn’t like her, never will be.

 

“We’ll find him. We just need a lead to follow. I’m not leaving him behind, Nat.”

 

As if on cue, the comms crackle to life. Before Clint has time to even draw breath to speak, an unknown, heavily accented male voice speaks. “We know you are there. You have something of ours, and we have your operative. Ignore us, and your man dies. You have thirty minutes.”

 

Natasha’s expression darkens. “They’re offering a trade? Like that’s ever going to happen.”

 

It’s all wrong. Coulson’s their handler, he shouldn’t be in danger. He’s the one with the knowledge, the one with all the plans, all the contingencies, locked away in his head. _Don’t panic_ , Clint tells himself, although he knows that the roiling, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach isn’t exactly panic.

 

Clint glances at the canister, weighing his options. It’s not hard to figure out what they want. Of course, this is Hydra. Once they’ve got what they want, they’re just going to kill Phil, and the rest of them while they’re at it. Hydra isn’t exactly subtle, and they’re not known for playing fair.

 

“We need to figure out where they’ve got him”

 

Natasha shakes her head, as if she can read his mind. “We’re in no shape to mount a rescue. We need to call in an evac, let the extraction team handle this. They know where we are, we just have to be patient.”

 

There isn’t enough time, and they both know it. “Nat…”

 

“No. It’s suicide. You could expose us all. I can’t keep us safe, not like this.”

 

“You won’t have to,” he finds himself pleading. Just the thought of going back to an empty home… He can’t stomach it. “We’re sitting ducks here, no matter what. I gotta take care of this. Nat, it’s Phil. I just… I can’t. Please, I have to do this.”

 

“I can’t help you,” she says, her eyes bright, but he knows what she means.

 

The voice comes back over the comms. “You have twenty-seven minutes now. One of you had better answer.”

 

This time, Clint answers. “I accept.”

 

The man chortles, and Clint decides he hates him, just on principle. “What, no heroics? No grandstanding to tell me that you cannot let me have the weapon? That your operative is expendable so long as the world is safe?”

 

Clint feels a small surge of triumph. If they’re referring to Phil as an operative, it means they don’t know anything about the team, and he can use that to his advantage _. Look for every angle_ , he can hear Phil telling him. _Use their weaknesses, but use their strengths, too. Everything can be used._

 

“No heroics from me. They don’t pay me enough for that,” he keeps his tone neutral, but allows an edge of anger to creep into his voice. He needs them to believe he’s a grunt motivated mainly by self-interest, it’s the language they understand best. “I’ll give you the canister, in exchange for both of us getting out of here alive. But I need proof of life first.”

 

There’s a silence, and Clint staggers over to the wall, leaning against it in order to catch his breath and take the pressure off his knee. There’s an air duct above his head, but there’s no way of knowing how much of the ducts are still in working order after the explosion. It’s too risky, even if he wasn’t already injured. He needs to lure them out, get them to expose themselves. The closet vantage point is the broken window, and he thinks he can make that work. There’s enough debris that he thinks he could climb up there, injured leg or no.

 

The comms come back to life.

 

“Romanov?” Phil sounds off, his speech slurring even on that one word.

 

Clint’s knees almost give out with relief. “No, it’s—it’s me.” He can’t bring himself to stick to protocol, but Phil would never let him hear the end of using first names over the comms. “They listening in?” They shouldn’t be able to, since Phil would only have the one earpiece, but the last thing Clint needs is for Phil’s captors to be able to hear their conversation. His plan is flimsy enough as it is, without giving anything away to them.

 

“They can’t,” Phil confirms, but he sounds tired, almost beaten down. “Look, get out. Follow the extraction protocol, you got it?”

 

“All due respect, sir, fuck that. How badly are you hurt?”

 

“I’m fine,” Phil lies, badly. “You have your orders, Barton.”

 

“I’m getting you out. Just be ready.”

 

“Barton—“

 

“No.”

 

He can’t even finish his protest. There’s a scuffling sound, and the Hydra operative comes back on the line. “You have twenty-two minutes.”

 

Negotiation isn’t exactly Clint’s strong suit—that’s more Phil’s department—but this time he thinks it might work in his favour. “Okay, but you have to come to me. This place is smashed to bits, and I’m not about to try to play Labyrinth for your amusement. Here’s are my terms: we stick to your timetable. You come alone to the North section of the courtyard with my operative,” he has to bite his lip to contain his amusement at calling Phil ‘his’ operative. He can only imagine what Phil will have to say about that. “And when I’m sure he’s no longer in danger, you get what you want.”

 

“Deal.”

 

They’re both lying, and they both know it, but it’s part of the game. Whoever comes out on the right end of the double-cross wins. Natasha is looking up at him, her face screwed up with pain and worry.

 

“They’re coming to us?”

 

“That’s the plan.”

 

“I’ll need a splint, in case things go bad. In case I need to get us out of here,” she motions to Faraji, still unmoving beside her.

 

“I can do that.”

 

“They’re going to double-cross you, you know. Try to kill you the minute you step into the open.”

 

He starts rummaging through the rubble around them for anything he can use to splint her leg, finally comes up with some very mismatched furniture legs. “I know,” he says simply, then pulls his shirt over his head and begins systematically ripping strips from it.

 

Natasha pulls off one of her gloves to bite on. He does a hatchet job of the splint, but it only has to last an hour or so at most. By the time he’s done they’re both sweating, his wrist (definitely a hairline fracture, he’s decided) is throbbing in time with his pulse, and Natasha’s hands are shaking a little. He gives her a pat on the arm.

 

“Good enough?”

 

“Good enough.” She grimaces at her leg as if it has personally offended her by breaking. “I know you’re better at being the back-up, but there’s no choice. I can’t shoot that thing,” she smiles wryly at the bow slung across his back, “and I can’t go out there. You’re not in much shape to be shooting either, by the looks of it. You’re going to have to talk your way out of this.”

 

“Yeah, I know. Try not to despair,” he jokes lamely, but her smile broadens a bit.

 

“Go get ‘em.”

 

Clint checks his watch, annoyed that he has to squint at it in order for the tiny numbers to swim into focus. He’s got just enough time to get outside, not enough time to form a back-up plan in case this one—flimsy as it is—goes south. Even if Coulson was able to signal for an evac team, which seems doubtful at this point, they won’t arrive for at least two hours, probably more, by which time Phil and everyone else will be long since dead.

 

He limps over to the largest breach in the wall, and hurries across the courtyard. The whole area is horribly exposed; once he’s in the open, there will be no cover whatsoever to be had. He finds a broken section of wall that might serve and ducks behind it, tucking the canister into a crevice. He’s not planning on taking it out, but he figures he might need to wave it around a bit for effect. He peers out around the wall every so often, right up until he catches sight of movement from across the paved yard, and feels his heart leap into his throat. He steps forward, just far enough for the men approaching to know he’s there, but not so far that (he hopes) he can’t duck back and take cover if needs be.

 

“My instructions were pretty clear,” he yells. “Changing the terms of our deal is a risky move!”

 

There are three of them that he can see. Two of them are holding up Phil between them by the elbows, his hands bound in front of him. They’ve got him gagged, too, but Clint isn’t concerned by that. If they haven’t tied his hands behind him, it means this is amateur hour. He’s honestly a little surprised that Phil hasn’t escaped on his own yet, but he way they appear to be bearing the brunt of his weight makes Clint’s heart jump uncomfortably in his chest.

 

One man steps forward, and Clint figures he must be the one he’s been speaking to. He’s wearing black fatigues, and Clint pegs him as security. Probably not the head of whatever passes for security at a Hydra base, but close enough to the top that, when a situation like this presented itself, he obviously jumped at the chance to make a name for himself in the organization. All of which Clint can use.

 

“You are not in a position to negotiate,” the man calls back. “We have your man, and you are injured and outnumbered. You bring out the canister, and maybe we let you go. Or maybe you try to play games, and we kill both of you.”

 

Clint laughs, and makes sure it’s loud enough for the man to hear. “Actually, I’m in a perfect position to negotiate. I have the canister, and if you don’t play ball, I’m going to disappear into the night and you’ll have a hell of a time explaining that to your superiors. I’m guessing keeping this thing out of enemy hands was pretty much the only thing on your list today. How’s that working out for you? Hey, Coulson,” he’s very proud of the way his voice doesn’t break or shake even a little bit. He should have been an actor, he would have gone places. “You all right?”

 

Phil spits a little as one of the men tears the gag from his mouth. “Honestly, I have some complaints about the quality of the service in this establishment.”

 

Clint snorts. Some things never change, and if Phil is coherent enough for banter, it means he’s playing possum. At least, Clint hopes that’s what he’s doing.

 

“Enough of this!” The Hydra agent, clearly getting impatient, pulls a gun from his holster and points it at the back of Phil’s head. “Bring out the canister. You will place it on the ground, and then back away from it, slowly. Do you understand?”

 

Clint clenches his jaw. “Bad move, my friend.”

 

The two other agents force Phil to his knees, and he goes down with an audible grunt. The leader moves forward, until the muzzle of the gun is hovering a scant inch from the back of Phil’s head, and Clint feels himself break into a cold sweat at the sight.

 

“You have five seconds to bring the canister out, before I blow his brains out. Then we come for you. Five! Four!”

 

“All right, all right!” Clint can’t quite keep the panic out of his voice. “I’m coming.”

 

He snatches up the canister and starts walking forward, his free hand up in a show of surrender. He keeps his pace deliberately slow, his eyes trained on Phil, heart hammering in his chest. Phil’s head is bowed, shoulders slumped, but he looks up as Clint approaches, and meets his gaze. He nods once, almost imperceptibly, and that’s all Clint was waiting for.

 

“Hey!” he yells, hoisting the canister in the air. “This what you want? Catch!”

 

He hurls the canister toward the group of men as hard as he can. It’s just heavy enough that it doesn’t make it all the way, but it serves as the distraction he was looking for. The leader’s head snaps to the side, eyes tracking his prize, and Clint snatches the bow from his back, nocking an arrow and bringing it to bear it on the leader. His right arm seizes up with pain the moment he tries to draw the bowstring, costing him precious seconds, but Phil takes advantage of the opening by dropping full length on the ground and sweeping the legs out from under one of his captors. The other throws himself on top of them, and it all becomes a confusing tangle of arms and legs that Clint can’t make sense of, until what feels like an eternity later but is really only a matter of seconds, there’s a sickening snapping sound, and one pair of legs goes still.

 

The leader barks something in a language Clint doesn’t speak, and the remaining agent scrambles to his feet, reaching for the gun at his belt. He doesn’t have time to pull it free before Clint puts an arrow through his eye, but the leader is still up, still armed, still the biggest threat on the field. _Wrong move_ , Clint thinks, heart sinking.

 

“Drop your weapon! Now!” he yells, reaching for another arrow, but they all know he’s lost the upper hand. His wrist is on fire, and he’s not sure he can manage another shot—at least, not a shot that will go where he wants it to. His muscles are trembling from the strain of trying to hold the bow steady through the pain.

 

Phil tries to get to his feet, but the sight of the gun pointed at his face convinces him to remain in a crouch.

 

“You must be the famous Hawkeye everyone speaks about,” the leader says, without looking up. “Tell me, do you truly think that arrow will reach me before my bullet reaches this man’s brain?”

 

“Let’s find out,” he snarls, but they both know he won’t risk the shot. Can’t risk the shot. The canister is out of reach now. He’s lost his one chance to save Phil and get away clean.

 

That’s when Phil makes his move, lunging up like a striking snake, grabbing for the gun even though his hands are still firmly bound. For a moment Clint finds himself staring as they twist around together in an ungainly dance, each spinning and shifting to gain the upper hand.

 

A shot rings out. Both men fall, and the whole world goes blurry and surreal. He can hear himself screaming from far away, as if he were listening to someone else. He’s already running, bow and arrow forgotten, nearly goes down himself when his leg nearly gives out.

 

“Phil!”

 

There’s blood pooling on the ground. He drops to his knees, ignoring the stab of pain when he lands, blood roaring in his ears.

 

“Phil!”

 

It feels like an eternity before Phil pushes himself up off the ground and gives him a wry smile. “You want to cut me loose, Clint?”

 

“Jesus,” Clint blinks hard, eyes suddenly burning. “Jesus Christ, I thought— _fuck_.” He fumbles for his utility knife, uses it to cut the cords, hands shaking so hard he’s sure he’ll probably slice Phil’s wrists while he’s at it.

 

A moment later, Phil pulls him into his arms, brushes a kiss so light on his forehead that Clint could almost believe it didn’t happen. He allows himself a moment to sag with relief, to just feel safe, even if it’s just fleeting. “Hey, it’s fine. I’m fine. You did good.”

 

He nods, pulls himself together. “When that gun went off—“

 

“It didn’t.”

 

Clint’s eyes widen. “Wait, what? But—“

 

Phil’s smile widens ever so slightly, and he points over Clint’s shoulder. Clint turns to look, and lets out a delighted laugh as he catches sight of Natasha, perched in the high window, bracing herself with her uninjured leg, pistol in hand. She sees him watching her, gives him a smile, and waggles her fingers at him. He shakes his head.

 

“I should’ve known.” He takes a deep breath, finishes pulling himself together. “Next time you’re running an op, don’t try to come save us. We need you on the outside, calling the shots, not getting yourself taken hostage. I almost had to trade a weapon of mass destruction for you,” he jokes, and Phil manages to look a bit abashed.

 

“Not exactly an equal trade.”

 

“No, it really wasn’t,” Clint says pointedly. “Can you walk? Looks like they did a number on you.”

 

Phil snorts. “They tased me. Chalk it up to an off day on my part. Can _you_ walk, is the better question?”

 

“I’m good.”

 

Clint tells himself that he’s the one helping Phil to his feet, but he’s pretty sure it ends up being the other way around. He limps over to the canister, and tucks it under his arm. “I hope you have an evac team on standby. We have a mission to finish, after all.”

 

Phil slings an arm over his shoulders, pulling him close as they walk back to Natasha and Faraji, and Clint feels a surge of warmth flow through him.

 

“I’m looking forward to the debrief.”

 

 

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sian1359's prompt of "Technically on medical leave, Clint is still needed against the badguy."
> 
> I must extend my thanks to the moderators of this challenge, as well as my faithful fandom people, all whom were very patient with me as I wrote this story. Or, should I say, when I started writing a story, scrapped all of it, and started over with this one, against all good reason. This one turned out much better, I like to think.
> 
> Dear sian1359, this is your prompt in spirit only. Poor Clint never did end up on medical leave. Instead I mostly just dropped a building on him and hoped for the best. I hope it's at least somewhat close to what you wanted. :)


End file.
